Turn 84 of 228

Suggest they play a game together and ordering more food. Ask Lena how many likes her video got as well as how many subscribers she has

Morning comes slow and gold through the window and the apartment is warm and the smell is four bodies deep — unwashed skin and old beer and piss and grease and weed and the warm animal fact of four people who stopped managing months ago. Lena wakes on the couch. Marcus is on the floor beside the coffee table, the controller still in his hand, the screen in sleep mode, his belly rising and falling, the yellow nails curled around the plastic. Carl is on the other side of the coffee table, sprawled on his back, the beard thick and dark, the belly wide and heavy, one arm across his chest and the other stretched out on the carpet. Diane is on the couch beside Lena — 387 pounds pressed against 411, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, the springs long since dead, the cushions flat, the two of them sunk into the frame like the couch was built to hold exactly this.

Lena reaches for the phone. The screen fills — OnlyFans, the notification count, the numbers. She opens the app and the video from last night is there and the view count is climbing. She scrolls and the numbers arrive. The video has 2,847 likes. The subscriber count is 612. She stares at the screen and the belly shifts and the phone rests on it and the number sits in the morning light — six hundred and twelve people watching four unwashed bodies in a wrecked theater and the number is still climbing.

"Two thousand eight hundred likes," Lena says. The apartment is quiet and the words sit in the air.

"Six hundred and twelve subscribers."

Diane stirs beside her. The beard. The belly. The stretch marks. The eyes open and they are brown and clear and she doesn't say good morning because they don't do that.

"Six hundred?" Diane says. "Last week it was three-forty."

"The theater video. The four of us. They liked it."

Diane sits up and the couch groans and the belly settles on her thighs and she reaches for a warm beer on the end table and drinks and the foam catches in the beard and she wipes it with the back of her hand and the hand is large and the nails are thick and yellow.

Marcus wakes. The controller falls from his hand and the screen flickers and he rolls onto his side and the belly presses against the carpet and the yellow nails scrape the floor. Carl is still out — the snoring deep and slow and the belly rising and falling and the beard dark with sleep.

"We should order food," Lena says. The words are simple and the apartment is warm and the morning is gold and the four of them are here and the day is long.

"And we should play something. All four of us. Together."

Marcus sits up. The belly settles on his thighs and the stretch marks catch the light and the body hair is matted with sweat and grease and the smell rises.

"Four-player?"

"Anything. Co-op. Versus. I don't care. We order food and we play and we don't stop."

Diane reaches for the phone — her own phone, the one she hasn't checked since Friday — and opens the delivery app and the screen fills with options and the four of them are large and the order will be large and the morning is gold and the apartment holds them.